


Never Trust A Guy Who Wears A Sweater

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Domestic Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, cas is a dumb hipster, obligatory coffee shop fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 05:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1927929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Not into guys. And even if I was, not him. He looks shady. Too innocent, and I'd never trust a guy who wears a sweater."</p><p>Cas wanders into a coffee shop one day. Several months later, he walks out of the same coffee shop, this time with a boyfriend.</p><p>A typical coffee-shop fic inspired by Season 8, Episode 18, 'Freaks and Geeks,' 24:36.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Trust A Guy Who Wears A Sweater

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone! i'm new at this, so go easy on me, but please don't hesitate to correct any errors i've made. it's currently unbeta'd, but i guess, comment if you're interested? not sure how that works. anyways, go forth and enjoy the Destiel.

“Could I get a 14 ounce vanilla latte with soy milk, please?”

“Sure thing. That’ll be $3.84, ma’am.”

“Here you go,” The woman says, handing over a MasterCard.

Dean swipes it and hands it back to her. “Would you like your receipt?”

“Oh, no thanks, hon.” She tucks the card safely in her wallet and moves to the pick-up counter as Dean turns to prepare her drink. She’s probably 50 or so, maybe a teacher? She’s got salt-and-pepper hair in a bun, showing off whimsical earrings. She looks like she could have slept better last night, so Dean gives her an extra shot on the house, and a grin as he slides her drink over the counter.

“Have a great day.”

“Thanks, dear, you too!” She gives a little wave as she exits the coffee shop.

It’s an overcast, windy Thursday morning at 10, so business is slow. Dean leans against the counter and checks his phone. He’s waiting for a text from Sammy about picking up dinner tonight. Dean is fine with normal people food like burgers or pizza, but Sam’s visiting from Stanford with a strict schedule wherein Dean is coerced into eating rabbit food at least three times a week. Bitch.

Sam still hasn’t replied, so Dean shoots off a quick text - 

[I’m picking up dinner tonight. No arguments, no rabbit food.]

\- and glances up as the bell chimes to announce a customer, who enters the shop cautiously, gazing at the walls, the leather armchairs, and the scattered coffee-drinkers on laptops.

It’s a man, Dean’s age, twenty or so. He’s wearing skinny jeans, a slouchy knit cap, and - son of a bitch. A sweater. The collar of a flannel shirt peeks over the edge of the hellish wool garment. The man himself is maybe a bit shorter than Dean, with messy dark hair and a vacant expression. Damn. A hipster.

Now Dean’s all for free speech and liberty and expressing yourself, but why people feel a need to express themselves in cardigans and skinny jeans remains a mystery to him. Skinny jeans are for pussies. But hey, he’s a customer, so Dean clears his throat, and Sweater Guy looks at him, startled.

“Hello.” He says seriously. His voice is much lower and rougher than Dean expected. “Can I help you?”

Dean stares at him. Is he for real?

Sweater Boy is still waiting solemnly for an answer. Dean grins slowly, uncertain.

“Usually this is the part where I ask if I can help you.”

“Oh…” The guy looks kinda lost. He ambles up to the counter, scanning the drinks menu. “I would like to buy a coffee.” He declares.

“A coffee.” Dean repeats.

“…Yes?” He seems uncertain, so Dean waits a moment, then says, “Tell you what, man, I’ll get you something better. You don’t look like a coffee guy.”

“O - Okay.” This dude is starting to weird Dean out. Usually hipsters know exactly what they want and inquire whether the coffee is fair trade and organic, but this guy? Has he ever been to a coffee shop before?

“Let’s call it $2.16.” Dean charges the guy for a 16 ounce black coffee, but he’s got a different plan. He decides that Sweater Boy looks like he could use a chai latte. Or a mocha.

“You like sweet stuff? Or spicy?” He calls.

“Spicy.” Comes the reply. Chai it is, then.

Dean whips up the drink while Sweater Boy just stares around serenely, like the coffee shop is the most interesting place he’s been all day.

“Hey, you.” Dean slides the big paper cup over. “Careful, that’s hot.” He adds. Just in case, you know, this guy.

Sweater Boy takes a careful sip, blowing through the little hole in the lid. His eyebrows draw together, and he takes another sip. Then he looks up at Dean, a megawatt smile spreading across his face.

“Thank you. This is very good.” He blows through the lid again. “What is it called?”

“Dean has to fight back a laugh. This guy is almost weirder than Sam. “It’s a chai latte.” He enunciates slowly. Sweater Boy looks determined.

“I’ll remember that. Thank you, Dean.”

“Wha- How…” Dean gapes.

“Your nametag,” Sweater Boy gestures with his pinky finger, taking another small drink of his chai. He turns and slowly exits the shop, with Dean staring after him.

That has got to be the weirdest hipster Dean’s seen yet, and he’s seen some shit.

 

The next day Sweater Boy comes back, wearing a scarf, his jeans rolled into cuffs at his ankles. A scarf, for fuck’s sake. He waits for the two people before him - a 12 ounce earl grey and a 16 ounce drip coffee - and then looks Dean intently in the eyes and says, “A chai latte, please.” He looks absurdly pleased with himself.

Dean can’t help smiling as he rings the guy up. “$2.16.”

“Is that the right price?” Sweater Boy looks concerned, but Dean holds a finger to his mouth. 

“Shhh… Can I get your name?” Dean pauses with his Sharpie at the ready.

“Oh… Castiel.”

“What now?”

“My name is Castiel.”

Dean’s not even gonna pretend to know how to spell that, so he scrawls ‘Cas’ on the 16 ounce cup and sets it by the drip coffee cup for Balthazar to prepare. Then he takes the five Cas hands him and sorts out the change. 

“Thanks, Dean.” Cas smiles brilliantly at him, and it takes Dean a second to respond, managing a hasty “Yeah, sure.” 

When Baz calls his name, Cas trips forward to accept his chai, smiling at him too. As the door swings shut behind him, Balthazar whistles.

“You know him? Can you introduce me?”

“No, dude. Guy just came in yesterday.”

Baz makes a face. “He yours, then?”

“Not into guys. And even if I was, not him. He looks shady. Too innocent. And I’d never trust a guy who wears a sweater. Hipsters.” Dean makes a noise of disgust.

Baz just laughs. “Your loss, mate.”

 

Cas is back a few days later, and a few days after that. He and Dean develop a routine. Dean rings him up for a 16 ounce black coffee and makes his chai latte while Cas watches calmly. 

Dean finds out how to spell Castiel, eventually. But he sticks with Cas. It’s four less letters and not as pretentious. 

Cas has never had a nickname before, and he tells Dean this. Dean feels a little warm glow in his core when he finds out that he’s the first one to give Cas one.

One day Cas comes in at the end of Dean’s shift. Dean’s just hanging up his apron, but he grins and ties it back on to make Cas’s chai. Cas waits while he clocks out and falls into step beside Dean as he leaves. 

“How did you begin working at the coffee shop?” He asks. Dean sticks his hands in his pockets.

“Huh?” Dean says. Clever.

“I mean, you don’t look like a coffee shop person. Why do you work there?” Cas clarifies.

“It pays pretty good. I need the money for med school.”

“Oh. You want to be a doctor?”

“Surgeon, hopefully. What about you? You go to college here?” Dean looks over at Cas, who shrugs.

“Not yet. I’m still trying to figure out what I want to do.”

“Yeah, I get that. You got any ideas?”

Cas hums. “I like people. So, some sort of Humanities, psychology or anthropology. But my dad doesn’t think I can make a career out of that.”

“Screw your dad, do what you want, Cas.”

Cas laughs a little. “Ordinarily I would agree, but Dad’s been pretty touchy about his kids’ life choices since Luke…”

“Luke?” Dean wishes he hadn’t said that. Too personal, he’s only known Cas for a few weeks. But Cas doesn’t seem to mind - he answers anyways.

“Family drama. We’re not like, feuding now, it’s just hard with six kids and a single dad.” Cas grins lopsidedly. Dean whistles. 

They meander around the corner into the parking lot where Dean’s Impala is parked. Cas removes a hand from his warm chai to give a little wave.

“Nice car. See you around.”

“Thanks. Later, Cas.” Dean slides into the driver’s seat as Cas continues down the street, watching the sweater-clad figure shrink in his rearview mirror. 

Wait - Sweater. Skinny jeans. Hipster. Dean just had a normal conversation with a hipster. A hipster who, alarmingly, has become a sort of friend.

Dean doesn’t know what’s scarier - the fact that he’s now friends with a hipster, or the fact that he actually doesn’t give a damn.

 

In the next week, Cas comes in five days out of seven. The weather’s gotten worse, a permanent grey fog that settles over the town, drizzling more often than not. Business picks up, damp customers gratefully sipping their hot beverages. Baz flirts with Cas, Dean teases Baz, Cas branches out to try a hazelnut mocha and a cappuccino. Chai remains his favorite.

It’s Thursday again. Raining. Heavy, grey, the kind of rain that umbrellas don’t seem to shield against. Dean turns the windshield wipers up to their highest setting, for all that’s worth. Slowing at a yellow light, he turns on the stereo. Rain means Led Zeppelin. Dean smiles as the familiar chords wash over him. 

The light goes green. Dean steps on the gas, rain pattering on the Impala’s roof. He sees a figure trudging through the puddles ahead of him. Poor son of a bitch doesn’t even have an umbrella. His sweater and skinny jeans are soaked through, clinging to his hunched form. 

Dean’s about to keep driving, but suddenly his brain kicks in, and he slows just ahead of the figure, beeping his horn twice.

“Hey, Sweater Boy! You want a ride?” He calls through the downpour.

Cas glances up. Even through the rain, Dean sees the flash of white teeth as he grins, raising an arm to wave.

“Dean!”

“Nice day for a walk, Cas.”

“No, I don’t think so…” Cas actually looks confused. Dumb bastard.

“That was sarcasm, dude.”

Cas’s lips form a silent “Oh,” when Dean looks over at him.

Dean just presses his lips together to prevent a smirk from surfacing, and turns back to the road. “Which way am I headed?”

“Just keep going straight, then right on 84th,” Cas says promptly. Dean turns the radio back on. Cas makes a face.

“You got a problem with my Led Zeppelin, buddy?” Dean growls.

“No, no, it’s fine. I should have guessed you would be the Led Zep type,” Cas shakes his head. “What else do you listen to? Bon Jovi? Metallica?”

“What if I do?” Dean feels his cheeks heat up a bit. Cas looks delighted. “Okay, fine, Cas,” Dean spits, “What do you listen to?”

Cas shrugs, smiling peacefully. “I listen to everything,” He says simply. “Nirvana, Mozart, AC/DC, Taylor Swift, Fall Out Boy, Mumford and Sons. Everything.” He looks thoughtful for a second, and then adds, “But not Miley Cyrus. Or Justin Bieber. Or… Lady Gaga.” He shudders slightly. Then sniffles. A drop of rainwater falls from his hair and onto his cheek.

Dean blinks, and reaches over to switch on the heat, directing the vents to point towards Cas, who shivers and leans forward into the warm air flow.

“Okay, right on 84th. Now what?” Dean asks, glancing in the rearview mirror.

“Left on Mercer, then right again on 16th, and I’m on the corner of 16th and 43rd.” Cas rattles off the directions through blue lips and chattering teeth. Dean goes a little over the speed limit. He nearly wipes out a trash can on 16th but they make it to the apartment building in one piece.

“Thanks again for the ride, Dean. You’re a saint,” Cas says as they pull up to the curb.

“Man, I’m a freakin’ god. I demand a blood sacrifice.” 

“Well, I’m fresh out of goats and virgins to slaughter, but if you’d care to step into my humble abode, I can offer you a Swiss Miss. With marshmallows.”

Dean unbuckles his seatbelt. “Cas,” he says, “You have got yourself a deal.”

 

Cas’s apartment is clean(ish), the shelves overflowing with books and papers about ancient mythology, psychology, history, whales, sustainable farming, whatever. He turns on the electric kettle on the kitchen island, whipping out four packs of Swiss Miss and dumping two into each of a pair of chipped blue mugs. 

“Give me a second, I’m gonna go change out of this,” He says, gesturing at his waterlogged sweater. “Make yourself at home.” He disappears into a bedroom.

Dean wanders towards the living room area, hands in his pockets. There’s an Ikea couch, a coffee table, a TV, a cactus… Dean nods, impressed. He’s never kept a houseplant alive for more than a month or so. Maybe it’s a hipster thing. 

On top of a shelf devoted to fiction, Dean finds picture frames filled with what appear to be family photos. He’s reminded of the mantel at Bobby’s house, pictures of him and Sam, a few friends like Jo and Ellen. Cas’s family is huge, brothers and sisters and cousins, filling up the whole surface and creeping onto the history shelf next to it. 

The electric kettle whistles, and Dean jumps about two feet in the air, narrowly missing the cactus and stubbing his toe on the coffee table. Cursing, he limps into the kitchen to get the kettle, only to find Cas lifting it off its heating plate, clad only in ratty grey sweat pants.

“Would you mind grabbing me a spoon? Second drawer on the right.” Cas says, pouring boiling water into the mugs. It takes Dean a minute to process the request, but then he snaps out of it and snags a spoon from the right drawer, holding it out across the island. Cas sets the kettle down and accepts the spoon from Dean, swirling it through the cocoa. Satisfied, he licks the spoon clean, his tongue swirling across the edges. Dean finds himself slightly distracted by this.

“Your blood sacrifice, O mighty Dean.” Cas hands him the steaming mug. 

Dean hums in ecstasy, inhaling the smell of chocolate. “Man, I haven’t had this in forever.”

“One of the downfalls of working as a barista,” Cas sighs. “You must never get to drink instant coffee, either.”

“That, I can live without.” Dean takes a sip of cocoa, burning his tongue. “Damn.” 

Cas snorts. Then he seems to remember something, and whirls around, vanishing once more into the back room. He emerges moments later, shrugging into a flannel button-down. He doesn’t button it, though, and Dean has to make a conscious effort to look Cas in the eye. Cas picks up his mug again, blowing on his cocoa before drinking. Dean does the same.

“I can’t believe I’ve only been making it with one pack this whole time. Two packs is the only way.”

“Damn straight.” Cas raises his mug.

Dean watches him take another gulp, but he has to look away as Cas licks his lips. Weird. They fall into a comfortable silence, sipping their hot chocolate. Dean gazes at the apartment, noticing the stacks of Stephen King books and the tower of organic ramen next to the fruit bowl. So this is what a hipster’s lair looks like. Dean’s actually surprised not to see a typewriter or a guitar lying around somewhere.

“Sorry about the mess,” Cas’s husky voice breaks into Dean’s thoughts. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.” He drains the last of his cocoa. Dean fails to not stare at the line of his throat as Cas tips his head back.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” He says quickly. “I should probably, uh, not bother you anymore. But, thanks, for, you know.” Dean lifts his empty mug. Cas waves a hand.

“Right, yeah, sorry to keep you. I can take your mug.” Dean hands it to him, awkwardly shifting his grip on the handle for Cas to take it. It ends in a weird tangle of their fingers, but the mug reaches the sink intact, and Cas sets his mug down as well before following Dean to the door.

“Um, see you tomorrow? Or, you know, whenever.” Dean says, halfway out the door. 

Cas smiles that huge dopey smile and says, “Tomorrow. Thanks for the ride, Dean.”

Dean’s grinning as he dashes towards the Impala through the rain. He’s kind of looking forward to work the next day.

 

Soon, Dean is worryingly close to the damn sweater bastard. He gives Cas rides around town at least once a week. He discovers Cas doesn’t have an Xbox, and summons him to his apartment to play Call of Duty and Mario Kart. Cas brings four packs of Swiss Miss with him. He sucks more at video games than anyone Dean's ever met.

 

“What kinda name is Castiel, anyways?” Dean demands one day, passing the cup, with ‘Cas’ scribbled on it, off to Baz. “Actually, what kind of name is freakin’ Balthazar?”

“I wouldn’t expect peasant scum like yourself to understand, Dean.” Baz sniffs.

Cas snorts. “I’m with Baz on this one.”

“Of course you are.” Dean scoffs.

 

Eventually, somehow, they end up exchanging phone numbers. Dean gets told off by his supervisor, Garth, for texting at work. He doesn’t tell Cas this. His phone continues to buzz in his back pocket at random times during the day.

 

Cas takes Dean to a record shop, where Dean is delighted to find vinyls of all his favorite bands and a used record player for a decent price. Only when he gets home does Dean realize how revoltingly Cas-like this is. Son of a bitch.

 

Dean gets Cas hooked on Pringles and Super Smash Bros.

 

One day, Cas answers the door wrapped in a huge black knit blanket that billows out behind him as he heads for the kitchen to make their Swiss Miss.

Dean grins and cups his hands over his mouth, making a Darth Vader breathing sound.

“Why are you doing that?” Cas looks concerned for Dean’s mental stability.

"Come on, dude. Darth Vader?" 

Cas looks nonplussed.

Dean’s hands drop from his mouth. Cas puts down the kettle and steps closer as if to make sure he’s all right. Dean feels almost like crying.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” He says, taking hold of Cas’s shoulders, nearly shaking him. “You’ve seen Star Wars. Everyone’s seen Star Wars. Please. I need this, Cas.”

Cas blinks innocently in Dean’s grasp. “Star Wars? I’ve heard of that…”

Dean drops his head onto Cas’s shoulder. “Why are we friends?” He whispers in agony. “Why do I talk to you?” Cas hesitantly pats his back, turning his head to whisper in Dean’s ear.

“Have I done something wrong?”

Dean takes a deep breath and straightens, looking Cas squarely in the eyes. Damn, his eyes are really blue, like - Dean focuses on the crisis at hand.

“We’re going to fix this. You’re coming to my apartment, and we are going to educate you. You hear me?”

Cas nods nervously. “Okay.”

 

Two days later, Cas arrives at Dean’s house at eleven in the morning, armed with a party-size bag of his weird-ass organic chips. Dean directs him to the couch.

“Sit.” Cas sits. “Stay.” Cas stays.

Dean dims the lights, slides “A New Hope” into the DVD player - none of that prequel bullshit, thank you very much - and settles on the couch beside Cas.

“Pay close attention.” This is important.” Dean commands, and Cas nods, his eyes glued to the screen. But his gaze soon slides over to Dean, who is mouthing along with the yellow words as they scroll into the distance.

Cas snickers. “Nerd.”

“Shut up, dickwad.” Dean shoves him.

“Love you, too.” Cas steals the chips.

“Son of a bitch.”

 

At three that afternoon, as the main characters celebrate with the Ewoks, Cas is still fixated on the screen, his eyes shining. Dean kicks his feet up on the coffee table and folds his arms behind his head. Mission accomplished.

“Can we watch it again?”

 

Cas brings Dean a cactus. He’s painted the pot with a geometric hipster-pattern and named it The Cas-tus.

“If you can keep it alive for more than a month,” he says, “I’ll… give you my deluxe Kansas LP.”

“Deal.” Dean’s gonna raise this cactus - well, Cas-tus - like his own damn child.

 

Dean gets Cas the box set of the original Star Wars movies. Cas sets in in a place of honor next to his own cactus. He also insists that Dean be present when he watches them for the first time. Dean is only too happy to oblige.

 

Cas leaves two weeks before Thanksgiving for a long family visit. Dean spends the week before he flies to Bobby’s moping and recruiting Baz to cactus-sit for him while he’s away. He and Cas text constantly during the day and late into the night, and Dean gets knowing looks from Ellen and Jo.

 

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”

“You were powerless against the Novak Puppy Eyes. It’s understandable.” 

Cas and Dean stop in front of Urban Outfitters. Dean pales. He nearly makes a run for it, but Cas is too quick, grabbing his arm and dragging him inside with an evil smile.

 

“What about this one?” Fifteen minutes later, Cas is holding up yet another sweater to Dean’s front. “Ooh, yes.” Gleefully, he adds it to the bunch already hanging from his arm. “Okay, we have enough now, come on!” He steers Dean to the fitting room. “You have to show me every single one.”

 

“Too baggy.”

“Wrong shade of green.”

“Not that one.”

“Sleeves are too short.”

“Mmm… No.”

“Ooh, it goes with your eyes…”

“Pattern’s too bold, nevermind.”

“Too preppy.”

“Oh, you’re so getting that one.”

“Um, no.”

“Oh, Lord, take it off, I’m so sorry!”

“Okay, that’s good too. That all of them?”

 

After half an hour in the fitting room, Cas narrows it down to three sweaters, one of which Dean vetoes. In the end, they leave with two sweaters and a beanie that Cas finds on sale.

“Come on, that was fun. Admit it,” Cas pokes Dean. He can feel himself blushing. 

“What? No! I mean… Maybe… Okay, maybe it was a little fun. Maybe. Kind of.” He mumbles. Cas claps his hands, fairly skipping with joy. Dean doesn’t find it ridiculous and adorable. Not at all. Shut up.

“I’m going to go home and drink beer and watch football to regain my manhood.” He declares. “You in?”

Cas rolls his eyes but doesn’t object, so they spend the evening on Dean’s couch, slightly drunk and with Dean trying and failing to explain to Cas the rules of football. They end up laughing themselves into convulsions, cheeks sore from smiling too hard, and fall asleep there, a blanket draped over them. Cas is sprawled over Dean’s lap, and Dean dozes off with one hand resting on Cas’s side, his thumb rubbing sleepy circles over Cas’s ribs.

 

It’s been a month and four days. The Cas-tus is still alive, so the sacred Kansas vinyl is relinquished, and Dean hooks an arm around Cas’s neck.

“Don’t worry, dude. I’ll take good care of it.” He consoles. “Besides, you’ll still get to listen to it, you spend like half your time at my place, anyway.”

Cas giggles. “That’s true.”

 

[hey, Cas. Left my sweatshirt @ ur place, when can I come by 2 pick it up?]

[picture attachment: image size 417KBs]  
It’s a selfie - Cas, wearing a wide grin and Dean’s NDSU sweatshirt.

[Ur never getting this back, Winchester.]

[I hate u sweater boy]

[n3n]

 

The next time Cas comes over for a Call of Duty marathon, Dean discreetly shoves Cas’s fallen beanie under the couch with his foot. Cas leaves without it.

[picture attachment: image size 386KBs]  
Dean sends Cas an image of himself wearing the beanie.

[haha bitch, now we’re even]

Cas replies lightning fast. [playing dirty now, r we?]

His second text comes in before Dean can reply. [ill giv u $5 2 wear that 2 work]

[fine. Bring $$$ 2moro.]

 

Baz bursts out laughing when Cas enters the shop the next day, clad in Dean’s sweatshirt, waving a crumpled five above his head.

“Nice sweatshirt, Novak.” Dean smirks.

“Cute hat, Winchester.” Cas fires back, dropping the bill on the counter. He whips out his iPhone. “Smile!”

Dean glowers at the camera. Cas crows in delight and Snapchats all his contacts, surrounding Dean’s face with haphazard purple flowers. He even adds it to his story.

 

“Dean, mate, I’ve got a question.” Balthazar starts. The shop is empty at the moment, a rare occurrence.

“Shoot.” Dean restocks the stacks of paper cups by the cash register.

“Are you and Cas… Er, you know…?” Baz leans against the counter.

“Me and Cas? Yeah, we’re friends. You… You still want me to introduce you?” Dean really hopes Baz doesn’t want that.

“Oh, what? No, no, I meant to say, are you together? I mean, if I didn’t know you, I’d say you were dating, but…” 

“Wait, what?” Dean stands, hastily shaking his head. The words don't come out as easily as they should, a weird panicky feeling in his stomach. “With Cas? No, no way, I mean, Cas - he’s, we’re just friends. It’s not, he’s not, uh…” Dean trails off as Balthazar looks at something over his shoulder, wincing. He glances behind him at the door, but there’s nobody there, just the bell, swinging slightly.

“What was that?” He turns back to Balthazar, who looks torn, his mouth opening, then closing.

“Nothing, it - it was nothing.” He doesn’t look Dean in the eye for a while after that.

 

It’s December. The 19th, to be exact. Snow covers the ground and fills the air, and Cas hasn’t come to the coffee shop for a week. Dean has texted him, but he makes excuses to cut the conversation off, their usual banter awkward and hesitant. It’s a weird ache in the middle of Dean’s chest, made worse by the thought that somehow, this is his fault.

“I don’t know what’s up with Cas…” He finally confides in Baz one morning as they’re setting up shop. “It’s like he’s avoiding me.”

The blond grimaces. “Damn, I should have told you -”

“Told me what?” Dean sets down the mug he’s drying with a bang.

“…Do you remember when I asked if you and Cas were dating?” Balthazar asks hesitantly.

“Yeah, and I told you, we’re… we’re not.” For some reason, it hurts to say it out loud.

“Right, well, just as you were saying so, Cas… He came in. But, he heard you, and -”

“Son of a bitch.” There's a sinking feeling in the pit of Dean's stomach. He's fucked this one up real good.

“I should have told you, but I didn’t want to meddle… He looked pretty broken up, though. Perhaps he felt… different about it.”

Dean closes his eyes, knocking his forehead against the shiny chrome of the espresso machine. “Damnit, Baz. What am I supposed to do now?”

“That depends on how you feel about Cas,” Balthazar says delicately.

“I don’t know how I feel about Cas!”

Even as the words leave his mouth, Dean knows they’re not true. He does care about Cas, more than a normal friend. And now that he looks back on the last two months, he realizes they’ve kinda been dating the whole time. 

Well, shit.

“I can cover for you,” Baz offers, “If you want to go talk to him?”

Dean swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I should, uh, do that. Thanks, Baz.” He hangs up his apron and nearly sprints to his car, already rehearsing in his head what he’s going to say to Cas.

 

But when Cas opens his door, wearing that damn sweater from the first day he wandered into the shop, all the carefully thought out apologies flee Dean’s mind, and he’s left standing there mute.

“Uh… Hey, Cas.” Nice.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas’s usual wide grin looks forced, falters, and then fades. Dean just wants to scoop him into his arms and never let go but. You know. Not yet. Cas looks almost as uncomfortable as Dean feels.

“Look, Cas, Baz said, uh, he said you came in? The other day? And, uh. Heard… Some stuff. That I said. And. Uh. That wasn’t totally true? Damnit. Sorry, Cas.” Dean can feel a blush spreading across his cheeks, but he keeps going. “And I was wondering, if, um, you might, you might… Maybe, want to, uhm… Go? Somewhere, with me? Like, not as friends? On a… Um…” 

Dean trails off as Cas starts to shake, trying not to laugh at him. “What?” He bristles. Cas can’t hold it in anymore. He collapses against the door, wiping tears from his eyes. 

“I’m trying to apologize, here!” Dean cries, affronted. He steps back from the door, but Cas grabs his shoulder, reeling him in and kissing him right there in the doorway to his apartment. 

Dean freezes for a second, but then he kisses back, one hand resting on Cas’s hip, the other coming around his back to pull him closer. Cas’s fingers brush his cheek before wrapping around the back of his neck.

He’s kissing a guy. The thought registers somewhere in the back of Dean’s mind. It’s different than kissing a girl, sort of. Cas isn’t curvy or soft, his stubble rasping against Dean’s face. Dean decides this is vastly better than kissing any girl. 

“Pick me up at eight, okay?” Cas pulls away just enough to speak. Dean’s breath catches in his throat when he looks at Cas. He’s so… pretty.

“It’s a date.” Dean kisses him again, then breaks away to bury his face in Cas’s shoulder. Cas’s arms slide around his waist, pulling him in, and they stay like that, Dean’s fingers slowly tracing up and down Cas’s spine.

“We should have done this ages ago. Like, last week at least,” Dean murmurs into Cas’s sweater. He feels Cas laugh, his lips smiling against Dean’s neck.

“Only last week?”

“Okay, before that. Before Thanksgiving.” 

“Mmm, yes.”

“Oh, damn.” Dean pulls away slightly. “I gotta get back. Baz is waiting and it’s Monday morning. The line will be out the door.”

But Cas is so warm and absurdly cuddly in that sweater, and Dean desperately needs to kiss him again. He does. Cas melts against him, but then he pulls away, giving Dean a gentle push.

“Get out of here. You have work to do.”

Dean groans. “Shhh, don’t tell me that.” He pulls Cas in for another kiss, then reluctantly backs away from the door.

“See you at eight, Sweater Boy.”

Dean waits until the door is closed to do a little victory dance.

 

On their first date, Dean takes Cas ice skating. Neither of them can skate for shit, so they spend the better part of two hours falling on their asses and laughing at each other. It’s possibly the best date Dean’s ever been on.

Afterwards, when their fingers and toes are numb and their sweaters soaked - yes, Dean wore one, too - they turn the heat and the Christmas radio up in the Impala and sing along. Dean takes Cas back to his apartment to thaw out and make a pie. Cas has never baked anything that didn’t come out of a Betty Crocker box before, so Dean walks him through the recipe for filling while he rolls out the dough. He also resets the lock screen on Cas’s phone as a selfie, flour smudged across his nose and cheeks, middle finger proudly displayed to the camera. Cas loves it.

While they wait for the pie to bake, Dean tosses their sweaters in the dryer and lends Cas another sweatshirt, and they cuddle and watch Elf on the couch. They leave the pie in the oven too long and the top is burned. Dean takes a forkful and holds it up to Cas’s mouth. Cas gets another bite for Dean to try. On three, they both chew and swallow. Cas didn’t put enough sugar in the filling and they both have to spit it out, but Dean still thinks it’s the best pie he’s ever made.

 

For their second date, they go to a movie. It’s a horror flick about some dead chick who haunts an old house. Dean doesn’t remember the plot too well, because they spent the whole time in the back of the theater, eating Sour Patch Kids and making out. They get some looks on the way out of the theater, but they just grin and lace their fingers together, and Cas eats the last Sour Patch Kid before Dean can kiss it away from him.

 

On the third date, they can’t get to Cas’s apartment fast enough. As soon as they’re inside, Dean is up against the door with Cas sucking bruises on his neck. They make their way to the bedroom, leaving a trail of their clothes in their path. Dean pushes Cas into the mattress, his hands and lips and teeth exploring smooth skin. He’s never been with a guy before, and that’s fine, because Cas guides him in slowly, and from there it’s not much different than with a girl. Just tighter.

Cas is beautiful when he comes, the sight enough to send Dean over the edge, too, and they lie there for a while, Cas on top of him, counting the freckles on Dean’s skin. Dean tangles five fingers into Cas’s hair and uses the other five to trace swirls into his back, until they recover enough for a second time. Dean falls apart under the sinful pressure of Cas’s mouth, and then he returns the favor. Cas has the pleasure of finding out that Dean is a very quick learner.

In the morning, Dean wakes to the sound of the shower running. He knocks on the door before entering, borrowing a just-used toothbrush and then stepping behind the shower curtain and into Cas's arms. They pass the morning sharing lazy kisses and Swiss Miss with marshmallows. Two packs, of course.

 

On Monday, Dean comes in to work to find Balthazar already there. 

“Morning, lover boy. How’s Cas?”

Dean knows he’s blushing and grinning like a fool, but fuck it. He doesn’t care. “He’s great, everything’s great.”

“You two are ridiculous, you know that?”

“Yup.”

 

Cas comes in on Dean’s break, and the kiss he gives Dean is nowhere near PG rated. 

“Hey, you.” Dean kisses the tip of his nose. “My place tonight?”

Cas nods, eyes sparkling. Dean’s heart skips a beat. “I’ll bring the Swiss Miss.” 

“Sounds like a plan.”

Dean sits in an armchair, tugging Cas down to sit on his lap, arms wrapping around his waist, and buries his nose in Cas’s sweater.

“Dean, I seem to remember you saying something about the untrustworthiness of sweater-wearing hipsters. Has your opinion changed?” Baz teases as he foams milk for a latte.

“Is this true?” Cas says with mock seriousness.

“No!”

“Liar.”

“Forgive me?”

“Maybe…”

Dean kisses the back of Cas’s neck, working his way around to the corner of Cas’s jaw. Cas gives a gratifying little mewl, turning to face Dean.

“Fine, you’re forgiven. Now, kiss me.”

Dean doesn’t need telling twice.


End file.
